


Hellfire

by dachenabritta



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 1950's, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Blood, Catholicism, Dark fic, Demon!Kylo, Demons, F/M, Forced, Graphic, Groping, Halloween 2020, Hell, Loss of Virginity, Paganism, Painful Sex, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Priest/Nun, Religion, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Reyloween, Sacrifice, Size Kink, Unsafe Sex, Witches, but only at start, church, i am literally going to hell for this, non-con, nun!rey, priestlo, sin - Freeform, sort of a HEA?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27261076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dachenabritta/pseuds/dachenabritta
Summary: Sister Rachel always had a hard time fitting into her church.It's not until visiting priest, Father Solo, visits and shows her why.aka(A demon and nun fucking au with a twist)
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 35
Kudos: 211





	Hellfire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenOfCarrotFlowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfCarrotFlowers/gifts).



> Um, yea so I was going to post this with my name but I NEVER want any of my relatives/ IRL finding this so, alas the anon safety wall. 
> 
> For the wonderful QueenOfCarrotFlowers! I am a huge fan (esp of nun Rey lol) and love your dark work! Hopefully this is okay for you to read ( I know the tags are ROUGH) but if not, I totally understand!
> 
> UPDATE  
> I have officially claimed this fic lol after an entire day of overthinking everything. I'm proud of my writing in this one-shot but again, PLEASE be mindful of the tags!!!  
> 
> 
> enjoyyy

It is winter when the first chill shudders through her spine; not from the snow or ice, but rather an awakening of sorts. 

She’s only at the tender age of sixteen. Rachel stands in front of the church’s ancient clocktower, the beckoning of midnight ringing through her blood and bones. The sound even pierces the snow as it vibrates below her bare feet. 

When her eyes cannot be removed from the gaze of the hands, Rachel can only assume this is the Devil’s work, Satan’s great plan, dragging her to ruin like any other sinner on this earth. 

  
  


The sisters find her the next morning, collapsed in the snow, no shoes, no coat and shivering in a hypothermic state.

She recalls nothing. 

_

“Sister Rachel!” a voice beckons down the long hallway connecting the classrooms, “oh, Sister Rachel, please do wait up!”

She’s attempting to carry four, _heavy,_ textbooks from storage to her class when Rachel hears her fellow nun call her name. It’s Sister Angelica, decades in her senior to herself. Her cheeks are rosy and her habit strains around her bosom. 

“How may I help you?” She tries to hide the annoyance in her voice. She’s left a group of eleven year olds completely unattended, and there’s only so many times she can threaten with “ _God is watching, even if I’m not.”_

Sister Angelica smiles and catches her breath, then places a piece of crinkled paper atop her stack of books. It’s crumpled and appears moist; like she’d sprinted while grasping the poor thing. “This is the telegram from St. Micheals. They will be sending over a _special_ visitor!”

Rachel hefts the books higher, trying to settle the weight against her stomach. This entire counter is out of the blue and so random, her brows are curled against her best wishes. 

“And...why was it so urgent for me to know this at the very moment?”

Sister Angelica only huffs. “Oh, it isn’t urgent. I was just far too excited to inform you!”

The air stills with this revelation. Her arms feel like wet noodles. 

_Love thy neighbor, love thy enemy, love thy sisters, love thy sisters, love thy-_

A faux grin plasters Sister Rachel’s face. “Thank you for letting me know, Sister. I will ask more questions over supper, if that’s alright with you.” Her voice is free of any poison and sharpness, despite her wishes. 

“Why, of course! Enjoy your arthemics, Sister Rachel!” she bids adieu, taking back off into the hallway with far too much energy a nearly sixty year old should possess. 

Rachel only sighs, turning and walking back to her class. 

Her arms ache. 

-

The telegram is hardly readable. The ink is smudged, most likely due to sweat, and it only says two things. 

_St. Michaels_

_Solo_

Rachel doesn’t have the slightest clue how Sister Angelica was able to equate this to being a _visitor._ Does _Solo_ mean one person? One group? Is it some type of group? If it’s a name, it’s a rather odd one. 

She gathers her questions over dinner. 

“Sister Mothma? Is it true we will be having a guest here at St. Augustine soon?”

The entire faction is gathered in their quaint and small dining room, the children seated in the hall adjacent to them. There’s enough teenagers eating among them to know another food fight won’t start. 

At the head of the table sits Sister Mothma, the leading nun of her monastery. Her pose is statuesque and graceful. The children fear and love her, which is a perfect combination when raising nearly seventy orphans. 

She takes a short gulp of soup before answering. “Yes. We were phoned this morning. I requested a visitor, a priest to be exact, to lead Mass for the next month or so while Father Bridger is out with the flu.”

Ah yes. She’d nearly forgotten their head priest falling so quickly and so disastrously. Rachel must remember to pray for him tonight, seeing as his conditions appear to grow worse, to the point where a foreign priest must take over. 

“That’s wonderful to hear that God has blessed us with a leader during these difficult times,” Rachel says, “I’m just curious...why was Sister Angelica so ecstatic to inform me this morning?”

Speaking of such, the cheeky nun is mid-bite of bread when she attempts to answer, mouth far too full. It’s Sister Mothma who beats her to the chase. 

“Seeing as you have not taken your last vows yet, Sister Rachel, we thought this was a perfect opportunity to further your understanding of God and all he’s done for you. You will be accompanying Father Solo for his time here within the walls of St. Augustine.”

Without her knowledge, Rachel’s jaw drops. 

“I...what? Father Solo?”

She was right. Solo _is_ an odd name. 

A few nuns slightly giggle at her mortification. Seeing that she’s the youngest nun here in the monastery at only twenty-one, she’s expected to take her final vows soon and graduate to her complete habit and title. Her chestnut hair is the only visible sign of locks anywhere at the table. 

“He’s young too!” Sister Angelica suddenly spills across the table. “Only thirty-two! Quite amazing for a man of his ability.”

Rachel is unsure what to make of this information and of her task. She is completely unprepared for someone to essentially shadow her for the following month, even if it’s not for every minute of every day. Rachel is a loner. She _enjoys_ the hours of solitude when classes wrap up, or when she sneaks down to the altar too late at night to speak with God. 

“That’s wonderful to hear, thank you Sister,” she nearly grits out, eyes staring into her bowl of broth, “I am blessed with this opportunity.”

Sister Mothma only nods, returning to her dinner and the rest of her convent does as well. 

_

He arrives a mere week later, in an automobile much fancier than Rachel has ever seen. It’s red and sleek, the windows glossy and tinted. A border of silver and white adorns the edges, and not a single speck of mud is visible on it’s immaculate coat. 

The nuns and children are all gathered in front of the church’s door, eager to welcome the young priest. It’s apparently been the single most exciting thing for many of the orphans, seeing that excitement is a rarity within an orphanage. 

And when he opens the door, a foot crunching upon fallen leaves, Rachel’s brain completely blanches. 

Instead of the traditional white and frankly bulky robes that Father Bridger wore, Father Solo is almost completely bathed in black, save for the scrap of white on his neck. His hair matches the same inky look, perfectly styled like the men she sees in the few magazines they sometimes forfeit from the children. 

She must ignore the flutter with her stomach. 

Father Solo first shakes Sister Mothma’s hand, then continues down the line of sisters until finally he’s before Rachel, looking like the silhouette of the angels she prays to everyday. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says, voice like amber melancholy. “What is your name, Sister?”

Rachel must swallow and take a breath before speaking.

“S-Siser Rachel, Father. You’ll be shadowing me during your stay.”

His smile is like a movie star’s, not like Rachel has seen many films in her lifetime.

“I can’t wait.”

And then this man _winks._

Maybe having the new Priest around won't be so bad, after all. 

-

After the Father is settled and he has had lunch with Rachel and the Sisters, Sister Mothma lets Rachel give Father Solo the grand tour of St. Augustine, which she is happy to do. 

They stroll through the church, the orphan’s quarters, the classrooms and finally the gardens, where the laundry is washed no matter how cold the weather may be. 

Ducking under a clothesline, Father Solo doesn’t dip low enough and his forehead catches, the entire wire rattling from his contact and Rachel cannot help the laugh that escapes her. 

“Ahh.. so there _is_ a regular girl under that habit!” he exclaims, causing Rachel to blush. 

“That’s quite a bold joke, Father Solo,” she comments, a little surprised by his sense of humor, “but it _is_ 1958, so I supposed we should outgrow our rather uptight views here at St. Augustine. I swear, this monastery can be so- so _old fashioned_ sometimes.”

Father Solo clasps both hands behind his back as they continue to leisurely walk past the lavender and rosemary. 

“Tell me Sister Rachel, when did you enter this monastery?”

Rachel tilts her chin up to the heavens, trying to recall. “Well, I actually can’t remember. I was either four or five, and I could hardly speak a full sentence. The sisters said I was being raised by wolves.”

He chuckles alongside her slight laugh. “Just an exaggeration, I hope?”

“I hope as well,” Rachel reaffirms. “Sister Mothma has a...particular style of humor. One I’ve never personally understood.”

“Were you raised here in St. Augustine then?”

“Yes. I learned in the very same classrooms I now teach in.”

A murder of crows hang from one of the nearby willows, heads idly following Rachel and Solo. It’s a sight she has strangely grown used to over the years. The crows have always liked Rachel. 

“That’s quite incredible. Have you ever sought out your real family?” Father Solo asks.

“Um…” It’s a subject Rachel does not like to breach for multiple reasons. It’s painful when you look back and realize your opportunities, especially the ones you did not take. 

“No, I haven’t,” she continues. “I don’t even have a legal last name, I just adapted Smith when I came to the church. They found me on the steps on a wintery night in November, but for some reason I wasn’t shivering or frostbitten. And when the nuns kept asking for a name, all I could mutter was ‘ _Ray_ ’, like _Ray Davies_ or _Ray Charles_ , I suppose.”

Father Solo hums in response. “ _Ray_. That’s a mighty interesting name for a young girl.”

“Ah, yes.” Is she still blushing? Rachel cannot tell. “They assumed I was either trying to say _Raymond_ as a last name, or Rachel. Obviously, they decided on the latter.”

He nods, supposedly feeding the information through his ears. The murder has now traveled to the spires of the church, beady eyes gazing at the pair as they approach the steps of the church.

“And you, Father Solo? How did you make your way to St. Micheals?”

He takes only one step with a black shoe when Solo turns around and presses a single, _large_ finger to his lips. 

“That’s a secret, just for the time being, Sister Rachel,” he declares in a hush. “I’ll see you bright and early for Mass tomorrow?”

It’s Rachel's turn to silently nod, the thought of Mass never even crossing her mind until now.

-

The days bore on, Father Solo attending each and every one of Sister Rachel’s classes. They dine together, pray together and stroll together, the nuns pleased with her incredible hospitality skills. 

The kids adore Father Solo as well and say that they can hardly wait for Mass, which is rare to hear. 

During confession, Rachel can only admit that she’s enjoying his time here at St. Augustine. Although Father Solo assures her that two people happy with each other's company is in fact, not a sin, he can only warn her. 

“Be careful not to fall victim to any of the deadly sins, my child,” he speaks through the screen. “I am aware that not many young men are frequent to your monastery.”

She gulps, his blatant truth hitting her like a train.

“I-I’ll be sure to refrain, Father Solo. To the utmost of my abilities.”

“ _Good_ ,” he purrs in a tone that makes Sister Rachel gasp silently. “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good.”

Rachel nods, grasping her rosary with both hands. “His mercy endures for ever.”

-

It’s the last week of Father Solo’s stay and Rachel cannot sleep. 

She tosses and turns in her small bunk. Above her sleeps Sister Catrina, out like a light. 

Rachel slips out of bed only in her nightgown and slippers. No one will be awake this late and if any children are, they will be punished for breaking curfew. 

A familiar and uncomfortable feeling runs down her spine with each and every step she takes towards the church. Usually on these types of nights, Rachel will wander to the altar and pray for some time, until her mind is put to rest again. In some cases, she’ll even go outside and stare up to the church’s clocktower and let the hands hypnotize her back to sleep. 

The floor is cool and solid when Sister Rachel reaches the nave, her eyes trained to the sculpted pietà of Mary and Jesus, the moment of his demise forever captured in stone. It stands proud upon the altar, the storm she was unaware of, howling against the stained glass. 

Rachel takes a seat in the last row of pews and begins to pray. It’s mediating and realizing. This is the time she can _truly_ speak to Him, without any distractions. 

And life has been _distracting_ lately. 

It’s not Father Solo’s fault he’s so... _attractive._ No matter how much she tries to deny it to herself of God, there’s some kind of pull that makes her want to forget St. Augustine and the monastery; to run away with Father Solo. 

She shakes her head, chasing the thoughts away. 

When Sister Rachel finally grows weary enough, she rises and brushes the dust from her nightgown. It’s fairly insulated throughout the church, so she’s not often to catch a cold on her nightly sleep walks. But suddenly a draft breezes through the nave, causing her to shiver. 

Turning to leave, Rachel’s eye catches something she did not see when she entered the church. 

It’s a tall figure standing at the altar, right in front of the pietà.

How did she miss that? 

With her sin of curiosity fighting to break free, Rachel creeps closer to the altar. The moonlight and lightning is now enough to make out it’s features, seeing as it’s clothed in the black, but is’s _definitely_ a person. 

“Toby? Is that you?”

Toby is one of the older boys in her writing class that towers over his fellow classmates. He’s not one to be out of bed so late, breaking rules. 

This is not Toby, though. He steps away from the shadow of the sculpture to become bathed in the white light, Rachel unable to hold back her gasp. 

“Father Solo, what are doing here so late?”

He is not smiling. But it looks like his eyes are.

“I could ask you the very same thing.”

Father Solo turns and gazes up to the stone Mary and Jesus. “What brings you to the pietà, Sister Rachel?”

“I...I don’t know.” Rachel couldn't explain it even if she wanted to. “I only came to pray and I- I just had a pull. Like, something inside me was screaming to be here.”

“The will of God, some might say.”

“What?”

Solo chuckles and turns back to face her. He is not in common clothes or sleepwear. “Our Lord always works in mysterious ways. Usually, in ways we don’t understand.” He moves closer to her until they are only a few feet apart. “Tell me, Sister Rachel, have you enjoyed my time here in St. Augustine?”

_Is that not obvious to him? Must she continue to confess this?_

“Y-yes. Very much so.”

“You are aware that _lust_ is one of the seven deadly sins, correct?”

Her breath catches as the nights upon nights pile up in her head, the want and need being subdued despite the scenarios that happen within her dream world. 

“ _Lust_ is what drives us to sin. And sin is what leads us to hell. That could be a slight problem for someone who has still yet to take her final vows.”

“F-father Solo, I don’t understand what-”

“Come here, Sister Rachel.”

She makes her way to him shyly, only for him to grab her face rather forcefully in turn, rotating her chin up to the pietà. The eyes of Mary burn into her soul. It’s a fire that starts at her temple and runs through her neck, warmed by the set of hands now holding both her face and her throat. 

“When He died, our world was given an opportunity. Give yourself to the lord and He will free you of this eternal damnation. But you know what He forgot to tell us?”

Her blood is pumping so furiously that Rachel cannot speak, stomach twisting in fury. 

“He forgot that some of us _want_ damnation. Why live a life absolved of the things humans _truly_ enjoy?” 

Solo’s voice seeps like liquid in his last few words, the hand holding her cheeks drifting down, down and down until it began to grasp the hem of her lightweight nightgown. Rachel should be struggling and thrashing, especially when he begins to lift the fabric higher and higher until her entire bottom and waist are exposed. 

He shakes her at the throat, causing Rachel to gasp. “ _Answer_ me,” he growls. 

“T-they-” she tries choking out, “hum-humans want-”

His hand dives below the thin cotton of her underwear, utterly soaked, and she nearly screams. 

“T-they want the w-wicked!” 

Father’s Solo’s fingers begin to swirl as Rachel can only repeat _wicked, wicked, wicked…_ again and again from panting lips. His entire body swarms her, like the blackness of the night and for some terrifying reason-

_Rachel lets him_.

Before Mother Mary and her dying son, He who has perished for the sins _she’s_ committing, withers Sister Rachel. 

Since she is so inexperienced and modest, even in her own privacy, Rachel is quickly worked up to the peak of rapture, letting her moans softly release, just like herself. Although the church is large, sound travels and is likely to wake up someone. 

“There you go,” Solo coos as she comes down, “much better now.”

He releases her neck to let her shaking body collapse against the creaky floor of the altar, taking gasping breaths as she does so. Father Solo looms overs her, his shadow almost four times larger than himself. 

Actually, the more she follows his shadow in the pale moonlight, the more she notes that it’s indeed _growing._ And when Rachel looks back up to Solo she finds the man growing as well.

Perhaps _man_ is not the term to use anymore, although. 

Father Solo has morphed and contorted into a being of great size and uncontrollable darkness, his inky hair longer and larger as well. His traditional Priest outfit has been transformed to long, black robes before her very eyes, the white on his collar replaced by a red gem that splinters and digs into the flesh of his neck much like a spider web. Solo’s cheerful grin is sneering, fangs poking from red gums. With a final shake of his head, horns emerge from either side and bring his final height to nearly eight feet tall.

“Y-you’re a-”

Sister Rachel cannot believe her eyes. She must be dreaming. Has God cursed her with such a nightmare? Is this punishment?

But none of her questions are answered when the beastly creature picks her up with inhumane ease and thuds her back to the table set atop the altar’s platform, Rachel gasping as her bones crack with the force. 

“They call me Kylo Ren.” Small fumes of black smoke surround his head as he comes closer to her shocked face. “I am the demon _He_ sends here to the mortal realm for one _extremely_ important task.”

Her fight or flight finally kicks in and Rachel begins to scream, letting her legs and fist punch at his firm figure, the reality of a _demon_ standing in front of her finally hitting. 

Not just standing in front of her though. _Trapping_ her. 

“HELP! Someone help me! Sister Mothm-!”

Kylo Ren covers her mouth and snaps his fingers with the other clawed hand. The lightning and rain suddenly pause, the air stopping all movement as his powers quite literally freeze time. 

“Ah ah ah, the time now is for _you,_ not those plucky humans I know you detest.” She continues her muffled scream and keeps kicking until he finally holds her legs down painfully. “This is a very special moment for our ritual, _Rey._ ”

Her thrashing stops at the sound of that name, an old name the nuns believed to be child’s babble. Kylo releases her mouth.

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Rachel spits out. “That name was just nonsense! I could hardly speak!”

She’s held down with an invisible force when Kylo suddenly stands up straight, terror seeping through her blood. With a _tsk_ in his tone, he begins to claw a line down her nightgown until he grows impatient and _rips_ the fabric away, letting Rachel cry louder in pain. She doesn’t remember when she started crying. 

“You poor thing. So changed by the mortal world.” Kylo performs the same treatment to her underwear, leaving her bare before him and the eyes of God. “You truly don’t remember do you? You were adored by so many. Even _He_ himself couldn’t wait for this ritual, speaking so highly of it for so long.”

Behind the shame, lies blatant confusion. 

“I have _no_ idea what the hell you’re talking about, nor do I want to take part of _any_ hellistic ritual! I am a child of _God,_ one of his chosen to lead the world in His eyes-”

Kylo pinches and twists her breasts, interrupting her suddenly. Words have left her again. 

“ _You,_ my dear, are certainly not a child of God. And _certainly_ not a child of any mortal who’s walked this Earth, either.” He’s now licking up her pale body, and sucks _hard_ against her neck. His fingertips and lips are rough yet warm. “Your are _His_ choice of heir and the mother of the future heir.”

“H-heir? Mo-mother?” she chokes out. 

“Yes,” he lips a broad stripe from her collar bone to her bicep. “A worthy sacrifice from the Palpatine clan. Witches are such difficult creatures to deal with,” Kylo sighs, standing up again, “but when they join your side, they are the _most_ useful.”

There’s a growl in _her_ voice now. “I am _not_ a witch.”

Kylo only blinks down to her naked body a few times before he chuckles, the laugh like the roar of an untamed beast. “Whatever helps you sleep, you wretched creature.” 

He continues to chuckle as he grips her hips and before Rachel can scream or protest, there is something blunt and _hot_ entering her. 

It takes a solid minute of his thrusting for Rachel to realize _that he is taking her virginity._

Rachel is no longer pure, no longer clean in Lord’s eyes. A nun must be celibate. She’s gone twenty one years with nothing. No touches. No caresses. And now she is being deflowered forcibly and against her will, in the altar of her own home. 

Kylo moans while Rachel sobs. He rolls his eyes and wraps both large hands against her throat. 

“I’m growing tired of this game,” he says, slowing down finally. “It’s no fun to produce a prince when you’re crying like some injured mouse.” He looks down to the floor and mutters something inaudible. With a flash, he grabs her arm, holds it above her chest, and rips a wound so deep, blood immediately starts down pouring from her limb onto her breasts and stomach. 

Her scream is something from Hell. 

“Oh _shush,”_ he tells her, balling up some of her ripped nightgown to stuff it into her mouth. The rest of her body is still frozen, no matter how hard she attempts to move, and her arm remains lifted towards the heavens, slowly draining. 

The church’s ceiling becomes blurry and so does the sound around her, as Kylo begins to chant something, the blood loss becoming too great. 

_“Novem tibi orbibus inferni clamavi…”_

She watches him cut open his own arm as well, letting his blood pile and mix into the sea of crimson pooling at the altar. 

“ _V_ _eni, inquit, demones inferni, quem regina rediit in!”_

Kylo is still inside her and as his chant continues, becoming more and more fervent. He begins to thrust again, _hard._

_“Expergiscimini!”_

The blood and her body slosh together at his force, a heat building not only in her stomach but also in her arm where the cut is. When her eyes lull to her arm, there are blue and orange flames healing the cut, which then spread and ignite her entire form. 

But this fire does not burn. In fact, it’s comfortable and safe. It’s even better than the feeling of _home_ which she associated with her church and monastery. 

It’s at this moment when Sister Rachel dies. 

-

Kylo Ren watches the light drain from her eyes in satisfaction, humming when she goes completely limp. The fire dies down and burns the blood, letting it evaporate. They must be pleased. 

Since he must wait now, Kylo grips onto the edges of the table to retain his strength. He cannot move while she’s in this transition state and he _absolutely_ cannot finish when she is like this. 

He waits, eyes trailing over the pathetic excuse of the cathedral. It’s nothing compared to the hallways and tombs of Hell, which are extravagant and meant to possess the sin of vanity. Kylo also grazes over her naked body and removes the shredded piece of fabric from slacked jaws, still enjoying the cream white of her skin and the almond colored freckles that dust her cheeks and chest. 

But minutes pass and she still does not wake. 

He tries not to grow concerned. Kylo's been preparing for this ritual for nearly _sixteen_ years now, watching and observing the young woman’s mortal form whenever he could. He’s sure the spell was repeated correctly, seeing as the blood was accepted, but not even her eyelashes flutter. 

It’s then when he glances down to her left wrist and sees the ever so slight of silver reflecting in the moonlight. 

“Damn.” He grabs her hand, still and dead. “How did I miss this?”

It’s a chain with a small cross hanging from the bottom that Kylo never saw, even with her clawing at him during the taking. He almost sighs a breath of relief when he rips the cursed object off and flings it somewhere to the pews, her breath instantly catching the minute Kylo releases it. 

She moans and stretches, appearing like she’s woken from a long slumber. In some ways, she certainly has. 

“Mmmhh,” she moans, “mortal bodies are so _constricting._ ” 

Although still sheathed inside her, Kylo bows his head, horns brushing on either side of her chest, as he kisses her navel softly. 

“It’s good to see you again, _Rey_.”

Rey cups his face and forces him to rise, red irises gazing into his black ones. “Don’t stop on my behalf.” She rolls her hips, the pleasure even greater than when she was in her mortal form. “We only have until midnight, my little demon.”

He takes her beautiful enthusiasm and lifts her up, until Rey has her legs wrapped the best she can around his waist, her hands gripping his tunic furiously. 

Kylo now has no reason to be gentle (even if he wasn’t beforehand). Her moans are loud and unapologetic, his cock curving and hitting a particular spot in this position. Rey tears and claws at his neck, marking her nails and filling them with his skin. 

“Are you prepared to- _fuck-_ prepared to rule alongside me?” Kylo manages to ask in between breaths. 

Rey smiles up at him, not a trace of fear or shame painted on her features. She only bits her lips and begins to touch herself. 

“I’ve been waiting _so_ long, Kylo,” her hand circles faster, “ _too_ long.”

Her tiny body withers in his arms when her bliss starts to crest and peak, her nails digging so hard that she draws blood. She screams her pleasure to the sky, to a God that looks down in utter horror and disgust. Like he always has. 

The fluttering and intense spasming brings Kylo to his own peak, his spend shooting into her, just like the prophets said, until Rey is all but milking the remaining spurts from him. 

They don’t have to catch their breaths because neither of them are human. 

He releases her with a _gush,_ seed spilling and crawling down her legs as Kylo sets her down. Her eyes never leave him as Rey grips possessively to his robes. 

“Let’s go home,” she says as a whisper, naked and bathed in the storm's light.

Kylo can only smile as he snaps his fingers, releasing the rain, lighting and time. 

They’re gone in a flash of hellfire. 


End file.
